


Ready

by Brithna



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brithna/pseuds/Brithna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not so much the label that's important; no, it's the process that leads to the label that holds discovery and true understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready

A lot of people probably think you’re just a twenty-six year old gold-digger looking for a payday, however long you can keep that payday interested. Actually, people probably don’t know what to think. Most of the time, you don’t either. Miranda doesn’t seem to have an opinion one way or other and the girls just think you’re cool to have around since you tend to be better at playing video games than their mom, and you’re definitely better at fixing things when they break. Especially them. When Caroline and Cassidy need a band-aid, they call you now to whine about it instead of bothering Miranda; you arrive on scene shortly with band-aids and loads of attention. When they can’t beat a certain level on one of their games, they drag you into it; you go willingly.

So that’s what you really are. You’re _Miss. Fix-it_ and a _Gamer_.

You also do every single thing Miranda tells you so that surely makes you something else entirely. It’s just never been clear what exactly that something is. There probably isn’t a name for it besides _submissive_ ; which has never seemed to fit correctly. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that word. Plenty of people can easily associate with it and in some ways you totally get it. But in other’s you don’t. Maybe because you just hate labels. Then again, if you hate labels, why are you thinking about this? Miranda is controlling by nature and, to a certain extent, you want to be controlled. So what? You’re both happy with the arrangement. What other people think doesn’t matter.

You remember the day when this _arrangement_ came to fruition, perfectly. It was summertime, the kitchen window was open and the scent of jasmine flooded the room. It grows on a trellis out back and up the fences too. You both like things that attach themselves to whatever they come in contact with. You both like things that wind around each other to the point of never coming apart; a tangled mess, living in perfect harmony.

One minute you were playfully kissing Miranda’s neck, straddling her thighs while she held you close. Neither of you were interested in breakfast. The next minute you had this crushing sense of being overwhelmed. Miranda simply wanted to know what you wished to do that day since it was a free Saturday with nothing on the calendar. You didn’t know and didn’t care and the thought of making any sort of decision was like a burden you hadn’t experienced before. Every day of your life had been spent knowing exactly what you wanted and exactly how you were going to get it. Even if it didn’t always seem like that, you knew and were fiercely independent because of it. In that, you and Miranda are unquestionably alike. The only difference is that now that you are hers, you were suddenly tired of the work that took. You just hadn’t figured it out until that moment in the kitchen.

In the kitchen you share, in Miranda’s arms, you figured out that you were more than ready to just get on with giving her every piece of you.

The end result of Miranda’s question and your non-answer is that you don’t really make decisions about anything unless it comes to the girls. They drive Miranda so crazy that she’s just about given them over to you completely. But everything else, down to what you wear on a daily basis, is up to Miranda. Every now and then you wonder if she finds this tiring. She doesn’t appear to find it tiring at all, though. In fact, she seems to thrive on it. And so do you.

Tonight is a perfect example.

The Book has arrived. The latest assistant’s name is, of all things, Patricia. When Miranda told you, you sighed, rolled your eyes and said nothing. What was there to say? Knowing Miranda, she probably didn’t even look at the girl’s resume once she’d heard her name. To her, it’s probably some twisted joke. That’s the last you heard about Patricia but she’s still around so there must be something going right other than her name.

While you haven’t heard Miranda say anything else about her assistant, you have seen the girl once or twice and talked to her a few times on the phone when Miranda’s cell is missing in action. She’s nice to you. Overly so, which means Miranda has expressed upon her that death will follow any disregard for whatever station you hold in Miranda’s life. Once again, you’re not exactly sure what that title is. You’re not Miranda’s wife (technically) and you’re not her girlfriend (technically) either. The first, because she hasn’t ask you. The second, because the word encompasses too little.

Like most nights, once you hear the door shut behind Patricia, you leave whatever else it is that you’ve been doing and take Miranda’s clothes upstairs and search for space on her side of the closet. The task is getting near impossible and you’re about at your wits end over it. Every time you mention a remodel, Miranda shakes her head and says she’d rather move out altogether than have people coming in and out of the house like that. When you really stop to think about it, you can’t imagine moving and can’t imagine dealing with the people, either, since it would really be you that dealt with it, not Miranda.

Mentioning a reduction in clothes is not something you dare to do so you’ve spread Miranda’s collection out among the guest bedrooms as much as you can. Once, you started to move _all_ your clothes out instead to make room, only to have Miranda give you this long ranting speech about how you ought to know better. According to her, she’d rather die than have you start to unwind yourself ever so slowly from any part of her life so if you _are_ just a twenty-six year old gold-digger, you’re set for life since you’re not going anywhere without her permission.

After you’ve managed to find space for the dry-cleaning you go back down and get the Book. Delivering it to Miranda is cut short, though. Caroline and Cassidy still haven’t gone to bed yet. Their mother told them to get themselves there and quickly about an hour ago. Like always, that never works so you take care of it. Caroline wants you to walk them to school tomorrow. Cassidy wants you to find the jacket that’s been missing for two days, yet she’s neglected to say a word about until now.

You’ll walk them to school. In fact, most days you do but Caroline still asks just to be certain that the trend will continue.

Cassidy’s jacket is probably long gone, which means you’ll have to get her another tomorrow. It is, after all, her favorite.

Once they’ve swore to stay in their beds, you finally manage to get the Book to Miranda. She’s been in the bedroom this whole time, sitting on the couch, reading. It’s still odd to you, but there’s basically a living room in your bedroom. One side holds a couch, coffee table and television on the wall; complete with end tables, throw blankets and a few pillows.

The other side is where a massive bed resides. Why the two of you need a king size bed isn’t clear. The middle is where you both sleep, hardly able to get close enough. It’s always been like that. A tangled mess, living in perfect harmony.

“ _Finally_ ,” Miranda says like she only half cares that it’s taken you so long. After all, she knows the routine. Even the part about the girls never being in the bed when they’re supposed to be. Yet, she still makes a comment about it to keep things normal. It always makes you laugh.

“ _Finally_ ,” you say, putting the Book in her hands, glancing quickly at the coffee table to make sure her post-its, pens and notepad are where they should be. Nobody knows this but you: Miranda might be writing scathing notes for everybody to read in the morning but she is also writing a couple of not so nice things for herself down on that pad, too. She is her roughest critic and not oblivious to the fact that sometimes, once she’s seen the whole picture, so to speak, she realizes she’s made some wrong choices.

Giving you a look that says, ‘stop being so cute,’ because you’ve made a show of rolling your eyes and smirking, Miranda pulls you by the hand to sit beside her. Yet, as usual, she gets up as soon as you’ve sat down. It’s always been like this.

While she’s gone, you turn the television on to the channel that shows a crackling fireplace. You don’t have one in here so this is the next best thing. Miranda is gone a total of four minutes. When she returns to the couch, there’s a glass of water for you and your allergy medication that you’re supposed to take every night but never would if she didn’t remember for you. She has something for a headache too, if you have one. Tonight you don’t. Thank God. Your new contacts are working out great. Who would have ever figured that being able to see—means your head won’t hurt?

Miranda settles back down and you settle into her shoulder. This position isn’t very beneficial for the sake of Book but if you were to move, Miranda would strongly object. So you don’t untangle yourself from her and every now and then Miranda kisses the side of your head.

Lately, all the things that Miranda does for you have been catching your attention. Like _really_ catching your attention. The simplicity of water and allergy pills is just another way of making itself known. It’s starting to hit you that, yes, she has always done these things, right from the start. But you resisted, which always caused some weird kind of tension to be there, tangled up with you both.

That tension is gone now… Because of that day in the kitchen when you stopped fighting against how much she loves you. She doesn’t control you, not exactly. She loves you. You just weren’t ready for a long, long time. You were tangled up with her, but the harmony was not in full blossom due to your own stubbornness.

Now that you’ve stopped fighting, stopped being stubborn, that’s why Miranda seems to thrive on whatever arrangement this is between you. There is harmony—not control and submission. Just love. That’s all.

“I love you, Miranda” you say, getting overwhelmed all over again; generally a feeling you dislike, but appreciate tonight because you finally get it. All of a sudden you realize you were a seed unwilling to grow in the beautifully tangled garden that has just been waiting.   

Miranda’s body reacts to the words by stiffening ever so slightly. She doesn’t hear you say them very often. “I love you, too, darling.” Relaxing again, she pulls you closer like she wants to do something else besides write cutting remarks on post-its and in a notepad.

You object. But not in the way she thinks.

Being the aggressor—if that’s what you want to call this—in bed, has never been your thing. Actually, it’s not because you find that sort of thing unappealing. It’s just that Miranda rarely gives you a chance. Now you know why. It’s not control—it’s just how much she loves you.

She laughs as you clumsily shove her down onto the enormous bed that you share. You love the way she laughs, but you’re glad she never did much of that when you worked for her. You wouldn’t have been able to handle falling for Miranda any faster than you did.

When you’ve finally managed to get her undressed and are incredibly busy worshiping her breasts that have always captivated you more than is probably healthy for a normal person, she finally manages to stop panting and moaning and clawing at your back to get her question out. One that you knew was probably coming.

“What… _oh my god_ …has gotten into you? Don’t stop…”

“Nothing… Nothing, Miranda. I just love you.”

That’s all you can say before your tongue and teeth return to their merciless feast. She is just as merciless as you, arching her back, thrusting her body against you, tearing at your back and shoulders, tangling herself up around you.

When you move up to her neck, Miranda threads her fingers through your hair and holds you in place. You miss her arms around you, but for only a second. When she cries out as you leave a mark, you think about anybody that might be awoken by the sound, but only for a second. When she begs you to kiss her, you wonder what she means because you’ve been kissing her this whole time, but then you realize. You haven’t kissed her all day.

Both of your hands are on either side of her head. You are hovering above her, kissing her so hard and deep that you know she’s unable to breathe from the feeling. In fact, her arms fall to the side, unable to hold on; that’s just how good it is. But while Miranda can’t hold on in that way, her legs draw you even closer, wrapping around the cage that encircles your heart. A cage that is like the trellis outside your kitchen window, covered in jasmine that Miranda frets over constantly when the weather isn’t just so.

You know from plenty of experience that Miranda prefers things a bit rough. She likes to be filled and touched with far less tenderness than you. Tonight you want to give her something else. Still kissing her to the point where she is crying out, begging to practically be suffocated if you even dare to break away, you gently move against her. Miranda’s already been driving her body upward, into you, but now you match her movements in a slower, deeper way. Her arms find their way back around you, tangling up in the rest of you, and her pace slows, she dares to break away from your kiss, and looks you in the eyes… The lights are on.

Guiding you with her body and soul, Miranda finds air enough in her lungs to say, “I don’t take care of you because I think you _can’t_ … It’s only that I want to. It’s how much I love you, Andrea. I thought you weren’t ready for such a long time…”

Well, you’ve always known that to her, you are transparent.

You can’t respond with anything but more pressure. Miranda digs her nails into your hips and accepts that with ease as things between you grow and blossom as if it is another summer day outside your kitchen window.

 

THE END

 

I am ready for love  
If you'll take me in your hands  
I will learn what you teach  
And do the best that I can  
  
I am ready for love  
Here with an offering of   
My voice  
My Eyes  
My soul  
My mind  
  
Tell me what is enough  
To prove I am ready for love  
  
I am ready

 

_Ready For Love – India Arie_


End file.
